


Je t'aime

by Robespierre



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paris (City), Pining, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robespierre/pseuds/Robespierre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ boss is sending him to the Paris office for a few months.  He speaks absolutely no French.  Enter Derek Hale, French tutor extraordinaire.  As Stiles works hard to master a foreign language, everything begins to fall apart around him.<br/>Non-werewolf AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ici

 

_Mr. Stilinski,_  
 _Thank you for choosing our organization for your tutoring needs.  Your personal tutor, Mr. Derek Hale, will soon be in contact to schedule your sessions._  
 _Best of luck in your learning endeavor,  
_ _Beacon Hills Learning Center_

 

_Mr. Stilinski,_  
 _My name is Derek Hale and I will be your French tutor.  I would appreciate it if you could provide me with a list of days and times that would work best for our sessions.  Additionally, I would like to know your educational goals – are you studying French for work or pleasure?  Is there any specific area of content on which you would like to focus?_  
 _Looking forward to working with you,  
_ _Derek Hale_

_Mr. Hale,_  
 _I’m free every weekday evening after 5:00.  And I need this tutoring because my company (I work for AllNatural magazine – it’s kind of like National Geographic) is sending me to our Paris office for a few months.  We’ll be speaking English in the office, but I need enough French to help me get around the city.  
_ _Please call me Stiles._

_Stiles,_  
 _How about 6:00-8:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays?  
_ _Derek_

_Derek,_  
 _Sounds good.  Start next week?  
_ _Stiles_

_Stiles,_  
 _See you on Tuesday.  I am looking forward to working with you.  
_ _Derek_

As soon as he opened the door, Stiles knew that he was going to lose his job.  Or get kidnapped and sold into slavery or whatever they do to unsuspecting American tourists.  Because he was never going to be able to learn any French.  Not with this tutor, anyway.

Derek Hale was gorgeous.  Like, marble statue in an art museum gorgeous.  Blue-eyed, dark-haired, tall, and obviously well-muscled under his expensive-looking black suit – Derek Hale was exactly Stiles’ type. 

Stiles had to swallow, his throat suddenly dry, before he could properly greet his tutor.

Properly greet?  Who was he kidding?  More like squawk out, “Hi!” in a voice an octave higher than normal.

Derek seemed not to notice Stiles’ complete lack of social graces and extended a hand. 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Stiles.”

Holy hell, that voice.  He could listen to Derek talk for _hours_.  It was smooth and low-pitched and reminded him of…hmmm…melted chocolate.  But it was also soft and gentle, like a little bunny.  Derek was a sexy chocolate bunny!

It was with that thought in his mind that he clasped Derek’s hand, shook, and said, “You too.”

There.  He could carry on a normal conversation.  Everything was going to be fine.

“So, where would you like to work?”

_How about my bedroom?_

“Uh, the kitchen table is good, I guess.”  He pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. 

_Normal human being behavior_ , he reminded himself.  _Don’t tell him you want to climb him like a tree._

Stiles followed Derek into the kitchen, where Derek promptly pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase, laid them on the table, and removed his jacket.  And those muscles that Stiles had only been able to imagine underneath the suit coat were now on full display, flexing beneath his white shirt. 

Black pants, a white shirt, and skinny black tie should have made Derek look like a government agent or a waiter.  Instead, Stiles pictured him as more of a James Bond.  Hale.  Derek Hale.  007 – license to seduce. 

Seriously, what was wrong with him?  He’d been around other attractive men in his life – why was this one so special? 

_Concentrate.  Gotta focus.  This is for work.  You want to keep your job, right?_

It was the fear of losing his job that pushed him to take a seat at the table, shake his head to clear it, and ask, “So, what’s first?”

Derek slid a sheet of paper in front of him.

“I’ve made rough schedule of all of the topics that I think we’ll need to cover before you leave for Paris.  We can add to or modify it at any time, but this is a basic outline.”

He pointed to the “Culture and Travel” section.

“And this is purely optional, but I thought you might be interested in learning a few things about the city itself, like how public transportation works and how to not get ripped off by waiters and bartenders.  I went to college in Paris, so I am very familiar with the city.”

“Are you kidding?  That sounds great!  I’m, uh, actually sorta petrified about this.  I’ve never really even left California.  I mean, I went to college only an hour away from here, and then the only job I could find was really close to home, and it made sense to stay with my dad so that I could start paying back my student loans, and now I’m twenty-five and have never traveled more than three hours away from home, and I’m not sure what my dad is going to do without me, and I don’t speak any French, and – ”

“Stiles!” Derek interrupted, laughing.  “Breathe.  That’s what I’m here for.  To help with the French.  And I will definitely teach you about Paris so that you can be less freaked out.”

Wow.  Calm in the face of a Stiles “too much information” moment.  Impressive, this Derek Hale.

“Thanks, man.  You’re pretty much my hero right now.”

“No problem.  Okay, let’s get started.  You’re going to be meeting a lot of new people, so let’s talk about greetings and conversation starters.”

Over the next two hours, Stiles became so focused on committing vocabulary words to memory that he was completely shocked to see the clock on the kitchen stove displaying 8:20. 

“Oh!  I’m so sorry – we went way over.”

Derek grinned. 

Oh, those teeth.  Straight and even and white and all Stiles wanted to do was lick them to see how his mouth would taste – damn.  So it was back to _Inappropriate Reactions to Your Foreign Language Tutor starring Stiles Stilinski_.  And he’d been doing so well during the actual tutoring – keeping his brain occupied with French was clearly the key to not doing or saying something horribly embarrassing. 

“It’s no problem.  I had a good time.  You’re doing well.  I think that we’re going to like working together.”

And, oh god, it wasn’t fair for him to be physical perfection _and_ an actually likeable human being, Stiles thought as Derek put on his coat, packed up his briefcase and headed for the door.  Stiles followed him out onto the porch and watched him make his way down the driveway to his car.  Derek rolled down a window before pulling away, and Stiles felt brave enough to call out a tentative “ _À bientôt_ ,” sure that his pronunciation was terrible.  Derek’s delighted grin as he answered with “ _À tout à l’heure_ ” would keep Stiles smiling for hours. 

 

 

***

 

At breakfast the next morning, Sheriff Stilinski asked his son about the night before.

“So, how’d the tutoring go?  You a French expert yet?”

“Um, it was good.  Surprisingly good.  This guy knows all about Paris and he’s gonna teach me about how to get around the city.  And he didn’t make fun of me when I practically gave him my life story in thirty seconds.  So, yeah – pretty good.”

“Good for you.  I hope it helps you to calm down a little.  I don’t like seeing you so worked up about this.”  
  
“Dad, it’s a big deal!  I’m going to –”     

“I know, I know,” his father interrupted.  “Anybody would be nervous.  But this is a great opportunity for you.  And you’re gonna end up enjoying yourself so much.  Just relax.  You still have almost six months before you have to leave.”

 

 

*** 

 

Famous last words.  After being called into his boss’ office (always a terrifying experience), he learned that the production of their magazine’s first international issue was being pushed ahead.   Those six months had suddenly become two.  He was leaving in two months. 

 

_Derek,_  
 _Holy hell, dude – I just found out I’m leaving in two months.  HELP!  
_ _Stiles_

 

_Stiles,_  
 _RELAX._  
 _I don’t have many clients right now, so we could meet more frequently than just twice a week if you’d like.  I am also available after 6:00 every weekday.  Let me know what you’d like to do.  
_ _Derek_

_Derek,_  
 _You are the greatest person ever.  If I ask you to meet every day, will you want to murder me?  I’m so freaking out here.  Also, please make sure my dad puts “died of a French-induced heart_ _attack” on my tombstone.  
_ _Stiles_

 

_Stiles,_  
 _Every weeknight for the next two months?  I can do that.  But you have to promise to stop stressing so much.  Paris is charming and beautiful and not freak-out material at all._  
 _See you tonight,  
_ _Derek_

 

Stop stressing so much.  Right.  Like that would ever happen.  Stiles was useless all day, spilling coffee all over his paperwork not just once, but three times.  His boss was so sick of seeing him twitch that he sent him home at noon. 

Great.  At least at work he had something to focus on.  At home, he was just sitting around and waiting for 6:00 and Derek.

Mmm…Derek.  Maybe there _was_ something that he could do. 

Not five minutes later, Stiles was completely naked and sprawled out on his bed, one hand fisted around his cock and the other clenched in the bedsheets as he came, groaning out Derek’s name as he pictured the Derek kneeling over him, moaning softly with his beautiful lips stretched around Stiles’ cock.

Wow.  That was… _intense_. 

And instead of cleaning himself up like a normal adult, Stiles chose to nap, hoping his imaginary Derek would follow him into his dreams.

“Son?  Stiles!  I know you’re in there!  Wake up.  There’s somebody here to see you.”

_Shit_! 

“I’ll be right down, Dad!”

Stiles glanced at his alarm clock – 5:58.  Great.  He had slept for almost five hours, he was currently naked and covered in come, and Derek was downstairs.  He sprinted to the bathroom for a quick cleanup with ice-cold water and pulled on the first clean articles of clothing he saw, which turned out to be his pajamas.  Oh, well.  If Derek thought less of Stiles for showing up to a tutoring session in plaid flannel pants and a worn Beacon Hills Lacrosse tee, then so be it. 

It wasn’t like he was trying to impress Derek, anyway.  Guys like Derek were, as a rule, never interested in guys like Stiles.  He’d have a better chance of convincing his dad to live a vegan lifestyle than he would of starting anything with Derek. 

He pulled on a pair of socks and headed for the stairs, only to stop dead at the sound of his father and Derek talking.  About him. 

“…just worry so much.  He’s excited about his work and he really wants this opportunity, but I’m afraid he’s going to start up with his panic attacks again.”

“Sheriff Stilinski, I promise that I will do everything I can to prepare him for this.”

“Thanks, Mr. Hale.  That means a lot to me.”

“Please, call me Derek.”

Deciding that he’d better get to the kitchen before the two of them started bro-hugging, Stiles made his way down the stairs.  And, in typical Stiles Stilinski fashion, instead of making a quiet entrance and greeting the two men civilly, his sock slipped on the fourth step and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor and landing flat on his stomach. 

His father and Derek both came running, if the footsteps pounding against the floor was any indication. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.  Just me being my clumsy self.”

It was true; nothing really hurt.  Except his pride. 

His dad’s voice was a little rougher than usual when he said, “Jeez, kid – I thought that you were finally old enough that we didn’t need to keep the house child-proofed.  Do you want me to put up one of those baby gates?”

“Dad,” he groaned, “just let me die in peace.  Make fun of me later.”

Suddenly, Derek was looming over him.

“Here, let me help.” 

He offered his hands to Stiles and helped to pull him up to a sitting position. 

“You sure you’re okay?  I can come back tomorrow.”  
  
“No!  I have to learn as much French as possible!  I’ll be fine.  Just give me a minute.”

“Why don’t you guys work in the living room,” his dad suggested.  “The couch is probably going to be a lot more comfortable for you than the kitchen chairs, son.”

Derek said, “Sounds good,” and was off to retrieve his briefcase before Stiles could object.  And he would have objected.  The “couch” was miniscule, barely big enough for two adults.  Whenever he and his dad watched a game together, Stiles always ended up sprawled on the floor.  That couch forced him into closer contact with his father than he was willing to sustain for any length of time.  And now Dad wanted him to share the couch with Derek, quite possibly the hottest man Stiles had ever met, and expected Stiles to concentrate?  Never going to happen.

He got up to move to the couch just as Derek returned from the kitchen.  Derek slipped his hand under Stiles’ elbow to support him as they moved together into the living room. 

_Holy shit, Derek is touching me_.

Stiles’ skin burned at the contact.  Derek’s fingers on his bare skin, even in an area as innocent as his elbow, sent a flood of warmth through his system until he was sure that he was blushing and the tips of his ears were close to purple. 

Not seeming to notice Stiles’ predicament, Derek settled on one side of the couch and patted the cushion next to him.

“C’mon – we have a lot to do tonight.  I thought we could talk about numbers and money.”

Stiles sat, keeping as much space as possible between the two of them.

“Sounds good."

 

 

***

 

Just like the first night, Stiles was completely surprised when their time was up.  He’d been working so hard, so intent on proving himself capable to Derek, that he couldn’t believe more than two hours had passed. 

It was the same the next night, when they reviewed numbers and talked about the métro.  Derek had him run through small dialogues during which he practiced buying tickets and asking questions about which line to take.  The system, once explained to him, actually made a lot of sense and he was confident that he’d be able to take the subway from his apartment to his office without any problems.

It was at the end of the night that Stiles realized he was starving, despite having eaten a large dinner two and a half hours earlier. 

“Wow, I can’t believe how hungry I am.  Do you want a blueberry muffin?  I just made them this afternoon.”

“That would be great.  I haven’t had anything to eat since noon.”

“Dude, you didn’t have dinner?”

Derek looked slightly embarrassed. 

“Well, I don’t leave work until 5:30, and it takes me about twenty minutes to get here, so I don’t really have any time.”

“Are you kidding me?  You can’t do this every day for the next two months!  I’ll just make dinner a little later and we can eat together before we get started with French.”

“No, Stiles, I can’t ask you to do that for –”   

“But I want to.  End of discussion.  I’m making dinner.  And tomorrow, after you see what a fantastic a cook I am, you’ll never want to argue with me again.”

Derek, who had stood to leave a few minutes earlier, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking awkward and unsure for the first time since Stiles had met him.

“Well, okay.  Thanks.”

“ _Pas de problème, Monsieur.  À demain_.”

Derek grinned, the same goofy smile that took over his face every time Stiles took the initiative to speak in French.  He grasped Stiles’ shoulder and gave it a friendly little shake before heading out the door.  Once again, Stiles followed him out onto the porch, waiting to be sure he was safely on his way before going back inside. 

“ _À demain, Stiles_.  _Ne t’inquiete pas!_ ”

 

 

***

 

"Seriously, I’ll never doubt you again.  This is great.”

“Jeez, Derek, doesn’t anybody ever cook for you?  It’s just meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

“Well…no, it’s just me.  I’m pretty good at heating things up in the microwave.  Sometimes I make Hamburger Helper.”

“You can’t be serious!”  Hamburger Helper was the foulest culinary creation ever.  Stiles would never let his father within a mile of that stuff.  “Don’t you know how bad it is for you?”

“Hey, it’s easy.  And it’s not like I have anybody to impress.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what do you eat for lunch?”

“Um, sandwiches?  Microwave burritos?  Sometimes leftovers that the women from work bring in.  I think they feel sorry for me.”

“Well, yeah, dude – they’re right to feel sorry for you.  I feel like it’s my duty to pack your lunches now.”

Derek’s expression was unreadable.  He didn’t seem upset, but he wasn’t exactly happy, either. 

“C’mon, knock it off.  I’m fine.”

_Oh, I know you’re fine_ was on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, but he caught himself just in time. 

“I’m not trying to baby you, Derek.  I just feel bad that you’re eating junk.  I would make great little lunches.”

“Stiles, please drop it.”

“Ooh, I could get you a little lunchbox with your name on it and –”

“I said drop it!” 

Derek was definitely pissed now.  At this, Stiles blushed, realizing that he couldn’t afford to make Derek angry with him – Derek was quickly becoming the one person on whom Stiles depended the most.  How could he fix this?  With atrocious French pronunciation, obviously. 

“ _D’accord.  Désolé_.”

The grin was back.  Stiles couldn’t help but return it. 

 

 

***

 

Gradually, Stiles realized that Derek had become more than just his tutor – they were friends.  Hell, considering the fact that Stiles made dinner for him every night, they were practically dating.  This was the most successful, long-lasting relationship of his life.  Too bad Derek had zero interest in taking things any further.

But they had exchanged phone numbers at the end of the first week and had begun to text each other frequently.  About things that had nothing to do with French. 

 

**_I actually cooked.  Chicken noodle soup.  From scratch.  Proud?_ **   
**_Nice!  I bet it tastes terrible. :(_**   
**_I’ll bring you some tomorrow.  You decide._**

 

**My boss just told me I look like a hyperactive chipmunk.**  
And?   
**Ha ha.  You’re hilarious.**

**_You free Saturday night?_ **

Wait…what?  Why was Derek asking him if he was free on Saturday night?  Was he asking him out?  He held the phone against his chest as he took a few deep breaths to calm himself before responding. 

**_Yeah._ **

Shit, was that an okay answer?  Should he have played it coy and said something like _I don’t know – what do you have in mind?_   Or, oh god, what if Derek had to come over to tell him that he couldn’t be his tutor anymore?  Or maybe Derek was going to propose to him.  Or maybe Derek was –

**_Good.  We’re going on a field trip.  Be ready at 5:00._ **

A field trip?

**_And wear a tie._ **

A tie?  What was going on?

 

 

***

 

Stiles did one better and wore the only suit he owned, feeling unexpectedly relieved when Derek showed up in one of his many tailored-to-perfection suits. 

“So, where are we headed?” he asked as he slid into the passenger seat of Derek’s Camaro. 

Derek didn’t answer for so long that Stiles turned to face him, worried that he’d done something wrong.  Derek’s eyes were huge as he sat, mouth hanging open, staring at Stiles. 

“Dude, what?”

Derek shook his head, blinking rapidly. 

“Sorry.  I just never thought that you could look like an actual adult.”

Damn.  Stiles hated that he still looked like a teenager.  He couldn’t help it!  Okay, so he looked younger than he was – why did everybody always have to bring it up?

His annoyance must have shown on his face, because Derek was quick to add, “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.  You just…you look really nice, okay?”

Derek Hale just complimented him!  Derek in his gorgeous suit and his sleek, shiny car and just a hint of stubble that he never had during the week – and Stiles was the lucky guy who was going to spend the evening with him!

Deciding not to respond to that because he’d probably end up telling Derek that he was in half in love with him, Stiles instead chose to return to his original question.

“Where are we going?”

“To dinner.”

_Dinner?  Like a date?_

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

“Don’t worry so much.  We’re going into the city.  It will take about an hour and a half to get there.  All right?”

“Okay.”

An hour and a half trapped in a car with the object of his affection would probably have been torture had Derek not been so cool.  The two of them had no trouble making conversation, and Stiles was once again surprised at how quickly time seemed to pass when they were together.  They were parking in front of the restaurant in what seemed like no time at all. 

Stiles checked out the sign: _Chez Pierre_.

“Oh, cool – it’s a French restaurant!”

“Yeah, I thought it would be a good opportunity for you to practice.”

Derek ushered him into the restaurant, his hand a warm weight at the small of Stiles’ back.  Stiles’ brain temporarily short-circuited at the contact, and he wondered whether it was acceptable for a man to swoon or if that was a practice reserved for the ladies. 

He retained enough presence of mind to notice that the dining room’s overhead lights were very dim.  In fact, the flickering candles at each table seemed to provide most of the room’s illumination.  He followed their hostess through the crowd to their booth (booth, not table!) in the back corner. 

Settling down across from Derek, Stiles realized that the booth’s high backs and the candles and flowers on the table, combined with the overall lighting scheme, made for the most romantic setting he could possible imagine.  And Derek brought him here!  His mind was racing and his heart was pounding so hard that it took him a few seconds to realize that Derek was speaking to him.

“…want you to be mad.  But I know the owner and he promised to find me a waiter who would only speak French.”

“Wait, what?”

Derek sighed. 

“I said, this is going to be excellent practice for you.  I didn’t want to tell you ahead of time because I didn’t want you to freak out.  But we’re going to have a waiter who will only speak French.”

“Uh, okay?”

Derek sighed again, this time even pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“Stiles, you’re going to have to speak only in French.  No English.  This is excellent practice for what you’re going to have to do in just a few weeks.”

Stiles realized he was in deep _merde_ when he opened the menu.  Everything was in French. 

As though the shock of only speaking French for an evening wasn’t enough, Derek’s next words were, “You have to order for me, too.  I’ll eat pretty much anything, but no seafood, please.”

Okay, panic time.  Wait, no. Think of _The Little Engine that Could_.  If that train could get up the mountain, Stiles could order food in a restaurant.  If all else failed, at least he could point. 

“Wow…I – uh, all right.  I can do it.”

“I know you can.  Oh, good – here comes our waiter.”

Stiles surprised himself (and Derek, he thought) by actually communicating effectively with the waiter and ordering what he intended to for both of them. 

He turned to Derek, grinning. 

“I did it!  I can’t believe that I –”

“Stiles.  _En français.  Pratiquons_.” 

Oh, no.  An all-French dinner?  This was going a little far.

“Derek, c’mon!  I just did such a nice job and now you want to –”

“ _En français_.”

Fine.  He could do this, too.  He could do anything. 

Wait, no.  He couldn’t.  Restaurant-specific vocabulary was one thing, but he was totally lost when it came to basic conversation stuff. 

Derek rapped his knuckles on the table in front of him.

“Stiles.  Try.  Please.”

Deep breath.  _You can do this, Stiles.  Impress Derek_ _._

“Um, _d’accord_.  _Tu as quel âge?_ ”

“ _J’ai trente ans_.”

Crap.  Now he needed to remember how to count.  _Trente_ …thirty?  Ooh, good – even closer to Stiles’ own age than he had suspected.  What else could he find out about Derek?

“ _Anniversaire_ _?”_

_“_ _C’est le neuf décembre.  La semaine prochaine, en fait.”_

“Uh… _profession_ _?  Pas,_ ” he flapped his hands around as if that would magically help him find the words he was searching for, “ _pas ‘_ _tutor_ _,’ mais profession_ _?_ ”

Derek’s laugh – Stiles was becoming addicted to it.  He could live on nothing but the sound of that laugh.

_“Je suis professeur de français à l’université.”_

And just like that, with Stiles’ exceptionally limited vocabulary and a lot of hand gestures, they were off.  They talked through the meal (Stiles thought he saw their waiter smirking at his lack of skill) and through dessert, and at the end, Stiles even thanked the waiter for pretending to not understand English.  (Or at least he thought he did; for all he knew, he actually complimented the man on the size of his forehead.)

Derek insisted on paying, and Stiles was so overwhelmed by the amount of good food he’d consumed and Derek’s utter sex appeal that he didn’t object. 

Once they’d made it back to Derek’s car, Stiles was so surprised that he let out an unmanly squeal when Derek actually _opened the car door for him.  Like they were on a date_.

“You okay?”

“What?  Yeah, I’m fine.  I just – nothing.  It’s nothing.”

Derek gave him one of those “are you sure you’re not actually crazy?” looks but didn’t pursue the matter any further, choosing instead to _wait until Stiles was in the car and close the door behind him_ before moving around to open his own door. 

What the hell was going on here?  _Was_ this actually a date?  Were they going to kiss at the end of the night?  On the cheek or on the lips?  Oh, god – what was his breath like?  Did he have any gum in his pockets?

His brain may have been flying through various end-of-night scenarios, but his body was tired.  And full.  After admiring Derek’s beautiful face, screwed up in concentration as he attempted to merge onto the highway, Stiles promptly fell asleep. 

He woke to a soft voice in his ear.  And a warm hand on his thigh.  _Holy shit, a hand on his thigh!_

“Stiles, you’re home.  Wake up.”

“Oh, I am so sorry I fell asleep.  I hope your drive wasn’t too boring.  And I hope I didn’t snore.  Oh, no – I didn’t snore, did I?  I’m so sorry!”

“Stiles.  Calm yourself.  It was fine.  You don’t snore.  I promise.” 

He was now alert enough to realize that they were parked in Stile’ driveway, next to the police cruiser. 

And Derek’s hand was still on his thigh. 

This was it. 

"Derek, that you so much for tonight.  I had a really good time.”

Should he lean in now for the kiss or wait for Derek to make the first move?

“I’m very proud of you.  You’ve made excellent progress.  You’re definitely ready to take on restaurants on your own.”

It was like being doused with a bucket full of ice-cold water.  Tonight was about tutoring.  Nothing more.  Derek might have been his friend, but that was it.

Derek gave his leg a brief squeeze and said, “See you Monday, right?”

He was extremely proud of himself for managing to sound halfway normal. 

“Sure.  See you then.”

Then he got out of the car, gently closed the door behind him, walked to his front door, let himself in, and managed to make it almost all of the way to his bedroom before breaking into tears. 

How could he have been so stupid?  He knew from Day One that Derek would never be interested in him.  Misreading Derek’s genuine interest in his linguistic progress was such a classic Stiles screw-up.  So, so stupid. 

What could he do now?  On one hand, he never wanted to see Derek again so that he wouldn’t have to be constantly reminded of his monumental idiocy.  On the other hand, Derek was obviously a good tutor and Stiles really needed to continue if he was going to have any hope of managing on his own in France. 

Was he mature enough to put his feelings for Derek aside and work with him in a purely professional manner?  Probably not.  But he was going to try, dammit. 

 

 

***

 

Monday’s tutoring session began, as usual, with one of Stiles’ home-cooked meals. 

Derek was so hungry that he practically shoved the macaroni and cheese into his month, stopping only long enough to drink water, breathe, and mumble, “You are definitely spoiling me.  This is great.”

His chest tightened as he pictured himself living in comfy domesticity with Derek, wearing an apron and serving dinner just as Derek returned home from a long day of work.  God, he wanted that so much.

He found he couldn’t choke down another bite, so he plastered a winning smile on his face and said, “Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”

 

 

***

 

Derek’s birthday was the next day.  Stiles wanted to ignore it, but ignoring it obviously just wasn’t part of his DNA.  In fact, it was all he could think about.  If Derek were his boyfriend, he’d get him something nice: a watch or a sweater or something.  But since they seemed to be firmly stuck as friends, he had no idea what to do.  Something non-creepy, preferably, but that was all he could figure out. 

He was slicing ham for his father’s lunch when it hit him: he had once joked about making lunch for Derek.  And other than the chicken noodle soup disaster (Stiles had smiled and congratulated Derek on his kitchen skills while trying hard not to vomit), it didn’t seem like Derek was doing any cooking for himself.  He could make Derek a birthday lunch.  And a little cake.  Not too creepy, right?

Derek was too special to be served reheated leftovers, so Stiles took a personal day the next day for the sole purpose of creating a delicious birthday lunch for his friend.  He started early and made a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting, unsure of Derek’s favorite type of cake and just hoping for the best.  The frosted and cooled cake was split into four pieces: one for Derek, one for Stiles and his dad, and the other two for the vultures in Stiles’ office who were always complaining that he never cooked for them.  He piped _Bon Anniversaire_ in purple letters on Derek’s piece. 

Next, he started on the meatloaf, remembering that it was the first thing he had ever made for Derek.  As it baked, he peeled, boiled, and mashed potatoes, finishing them just as the oven timer buzzed. 

Stiles cut several thick slabs of meatloaf and arranged them artistically around a huge pile of mashed potatoes on one of their nicest plates.   He found two tiny Tupperware containers and filled one with butter and the other with ketchup.  (And eww, ketchup on meatloaf?  But it was what Derek liked.)  He wrapped the plate in plastic wrap and shoved in into one of those nifty keep-your-hot-groceries-hot insulated shopping bags.  The cake was safely tucked into its own plastic container and wrapped in a plastic bag, and Stiles was ready to go.

Okay, here was the _slightly_ creepy part.  Since discovering that Derek worked at the college, Stiles might have found his office building on the campus map, checked out his class schedule, and determined the time he was most likely in his office to eat lunch.  Here’s hoping that those stalkeriffic skills were put to good use and he’d manage to get this lunch to Derek while it was still hot.

His heart was pounding as he made the fifteen minute drive to the college.  He’d already determined that parking in the student lot (hey, he definitely looked the part) would get him closest to Derek’s building.  Luckily, there were plenty of empty spots and Stiles was exactly on time. 

His hands were sweating.  His face was burning.  He was going to pass out from sheer nervousness.  What if Derek wasn’t there?  Worse, what if he was and he wasn’t happy to see Stiles at his work?  _What if he had a lunch date?_

Friends, Stiles, he told himself.  Just friends.  You can do this. 

He climbed the steps to the building’s entrance, concentrating hard on not dropping his birthday feast.  A kid smoking outside took pity on him as he attempted to juggle his packages and opened the door for him. 

Okay.  Second floor, Foreign Language Department, Room 220.  Find the room, “Happy Birthday,” get out.  Easy. 

But as he got closer and closer to his destination, he began to freak out.  He was on the verge of turning around and heading home, thinking how monumentally stupid he had been to ever think that this was a good idea, when a student called out to him from behind a big desk in what looked like a business office.   
  
“You look a little lost!  Can I help you find something?”

Stiles practically dropped the bags onto her desk. 

“These are for Derek Hale and I wanted to drop them off for him but I’m running late and I really have to get going, so do you think that you could please make sure that he –”

“Sir,” she interrupted, “it’s no problem.  Professor Hale should be back in a few minutes.  I’ll make sure he gets this.  Do you want to leave a message?”

She offered Stiles a block of yellow sticky notes and a pen. 

A message?  Shit, he should have thought ahead.  Okay, message, friendly message.

 

_Derek –_  
 _Happy Birthday!_  
 _I hope you have a great day.  
_ _Stiles_

 

He read it over, decided that there was really nothing else to say, and then the strangest thing happened.  It was as though he had no control over his own hand.  He watched, detached, as his right hand (that traitorous bastard) placed pen to paper right in front of his name and carefully drew a little heart.  He handed the notepad to the girl, headed back toward the first floor, and was in the front seat of his car before he realized what he had just done. 

A heart?  What was he, a twelve-year-old girl?  This could not end well.  There was no such thing as a “thanks for being my tutor and friend” heart, was there?      

It was official.  His life was over.  As he started his drive home, he realized that he now had six hours before tutoring with nothing to do but freak out about how bad he had screwed up.  Again.

The drive passed in a blur.  Naked girls could have been doing the can-can on the side of the road for all he knew.  He was just focused on getting home, getting under his covers, and sleeping for the rest of his life. 

But when he finally stripped down to his boxers and slid under the covers, he discovered that he had a better idea.  It was rare for him to be alone in the house lately.  And as any healthy, not currently sexually active twenty-five-year-old who lives with his father knew, time alone was not to be taken for granted. 

Realizing that he had the opportunity for more than a quick two-minute jerk-off in the shower, Stiles reached into the second drawer of his nightstand and pulled out what a former roommate had jokingly referred to as “the closest you’ll ever get to an actual man.”

What a dick. 

He snorted out a laugh, because, well, it _was_ a dick.  More specifically, a realistically-sized and shaped dildo.  It was nearly the same color as his own skin and just a little bit longer and wider than he was. 

Reaching for the lube, he reflected idly that his dildo had gotten him through many crises in his life.  He had ordered it from an online store when he was seventeen and realized that he was more interested in Danny Mahealani’s pecs than Lydia Martin’s tits and that his father never actually read his credit card statements, just asked Stiles to pay them for him. 

He’d turned to it when it became evident that everyone in his high school was part of a couple, except him.  He’d imagined somebody new, somebody who found him utterly desirable and who wanted nothing more than to teach him how incredible it felt to be touched by hands other than his own.

The dildo came with him to college, filling his body as he wanked furiously and shamefully, picturing the water droplets running down his roommate’s naked torso when he returned from the shower each morning.    

His first (and only) boyfriend advised him to use it to “get ready” for him.  Ha.  Like anybody needed to get ready for half an inch of penetration and “Oh my god I’m so sorry, that’s never happened before, you’re just so hot that I couldn’t help myself!”  He had promptly fallen asleep, so Stiles, red-faced, aching, and furious, enlisted a neighbor’s help in throwing the bastard into the girls’ bathroom and locking him in, completely naked.  The cleaning woman’s terrified scream the next morning had the entire floor rushing to their doors just in time to see his naked ass jiggling down the hallway as he attempted to make an escape, only to realize that he was running in the opposite direction of the doors.  Stiles threw him a shirt as he passed, which he immediately put on before continuing his run.  Passers-by reported that it wasn’t until he was nearly halfway across campus that he realized why people were laughing at him:  Stiles had spent nearly an hour crafting a masterpiece of a tee-shirt – he’d even borrowed glitter and puffy paint from an elementary education major down the hall – whose front said _NEVER HAVE SEX WITH ME – I AM VERY SELFISH_!  The back proclaimed _ASK ME ABOUT MY PREMATURE EJACULATION!_

Ah, memories.  So, yeah, Stiles was twenty-five and basically still a virgin.  More than anything, it meant that he had become extremely familiar with his dildo. 

He began by brushing its tip over his stomach and thighs, tracing undefined patterns against his skin.  Not wanting to rush things, but unwilling to wait any longer, he slid his boxers down and off and pressed the dildo against his own straining dick.  A few drops of lube and he was fisting them both together, sliding his cock against the latex and practically moaning at the idea that someday somebody would be willing to get that close to him, skin against skin, sliding themselves against each other in a rush of lust. 

He could keep going for hours (he knew from experience), but it wasn’t enough.  Was never enough.  Instead, he dripped more lube onto his toy and dragged it down over his balls to press against the very center of him. 

Normally, he would use his fingers first.  Any time he had the luxury of an extended jerk-off session, he took things as slowly as he could, enjoying teasing himself every step of the way.  Today, though – today was different.  He wasn’t in the mood for slow and slippery and easy.  Instead, he wanted that burn and stretch and the feeling that it was just a little bit too much, a little too fast. 

He was mad with lust, yes, but also just mad.  His hopes of romance had been dashed, he’d just once again made a colossal fool of himself, and _nobody wanted him_.  Nobody would ever want him.  He was too impulsive, too quick to speak, too clumsy – too much to handle for anybody.  He would never have anybody to call his own and he’d just live with his dad forever, lecturing him on the nutritional value of donuts. 

_God._   Stiles bit back a sob.  _I can’t stop torturing myself, even when I’m whacking it.  What is wrong with me?_

Trying for the moment to forget how monumentally lonely he was, Stiles tried to relax and pushed the very tip of the toy inside himself.  It was shocking, trying to allow entrance to something that big with no preparation.  Every cell of his body screamed _Stop!  This is a bad idea!_ but he wouldn’t listen.  He pushed farther, causing real tears to spring to his eyes as he squeezed them shut against the burn and the pain that flashed through him. 

Stiles was no masochist.  But this was something he needed to do – to have some measure of control over something, even if it was just his own pleasure and pain.  His world was spinning wildly off-tilt, from Derek’s hot-to-cold signals to his own latest dumbass stunt to his eminent move five thousand miles away.  He needed to find a way to anchor himself, to regain his equilibrium. 

It was impossible to hold back now.  He wrapped a lube-coated hand around himself and started jerking much harder than he normally did.  It couldn’t have been more than a dozen strokes before his phone chimed with the special melody he’d reserved for text messages from Derek.  Just like that, his entire body went rigid as he came messily all over his chest, one hand with a death grip on his cock and the other pressed tightly against his mouth in a vain attempt to silence his moaned, “Derek, oh – _Derek_!”

Two things immediately became clear to him.  One, his whole body was one giant ache.  And two, that whole just being friends and studying with Derek while forgetting about how hard Stiles had fallen for him thing?  Never going to happen. 

He shuffled into the bathroom for a quick clean-up before returning to pick up his phone.

**_I might be a little late.  Don’t worry about dinner._ **

Well, shit.  What did that mean?  Oh, no – was Derek upset?  Had Stiles stepped over some invisible line of propriety in contacting him at his work?  He wasn’t mad about the heart, was he?  What if –

He was saved from further questioning his every action since the last time he and Derek were together by a phone call from his father. 

“Hey, Dad.”

“You okay, Stiles?  You sound kind of strange.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  What’s up?”

“It looks like I’m going to have to work late tonight.  I probably won’t be home ‘til after midnight.”

“Okay.  Want me to leave you some dinner?”

“No, thanks.  I’ll just grab something here at the station.  See ya later, kiddo.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Great.  Not only was he going to have to meet with a possibly very angry Derek Hale, he was going to be alone in the house for it.  Here’s hoping that Derek wasn’t actually planning on killing him.  Because Stiles figured that Derek was smart enough that they might never actually find his body. 

 

 

***

 

When Derek let himself in the front door (he’d stopped knocking weeks ago), Stiles was instantly on alert.

“Dude, are you okay?  You look terrible.”

He really did.  Derek’s face was pale except for a bright red spot high on each cheek.  His eyes were red and irritated-looking and so was his nose.      

“Derek?  Are you sick?”

Derek said nothing but squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head.  Stiles, now starting to worry, grabbed Derek’s hand and pulled him into the living room.  Derek’s eyes were still closed as Stiles guided him to the couch. 

“Sit down.  Do you need anything?”

Derek collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands and allowing a tiny sound, almost a whimper, to escape from his mouth. 

“Derek!  Please talk to me!  How can I help you?  We have some medicine in the kitchen, but I don’t know what you need!”

Remembering belatedly that shrieking in someone’s face was never helpful, Stiles forced himself to calm down.  He slowly knelt in front of the couch and placed both of his hands on Derek’s shoulders. 

“Derek,” he said as calmly as possible, “I’m going to ask you some questions and I’d really like it if you could answer for me.  Just shake your head or nod – you don’t have to talk.  Are you sick or hurt?”

For a long moment, he thought that Derek wasn’t going to respond.  He was seconds away from moving for his phone and calling his dad when Derek finally shook his head.  Stiles let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.  Okay, so not hurt.  Then what the hell was wrong?

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Without lifting his head, Derek whispered, “Sit with me.”

Still moving slowly, Stiles reluctantly let go of Derek’s shoulders, rose from his crouching position, and sat next to Derek on the couch.  If he wasn’t so completely at a loss as to what was happening, he might have had an idea about how to proceed.  As it was, he knew just one thing: Derek was upset.  And when he was upset, he liked to be hugged.  So maybe he should hug Derek?

Since Derek gave no indication that he wanted or didn’t want to be touched, Stiles threw caution to the wind and gently placed his right hand in the middle of Derek’s back.  When he didn’t immediately throw him off, Stiles began to rub small, soothing (he hoped) circles across the broad expanse of his shoulders. 

After just a few seconds, Derek practically _melted_ under his touch, all the tension gone from his body as he turned to face Stiles and bury his face in his AllNatural Magazine sweatshirt.  Stiles automatically shifted to wrap his arms around Derek, one hand firmly around his waist and the other buried in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. 

His mouth was close enough to Derek’s ear that he only needed to whisper to be heard.

“Derek.  Please talk to me.”

He felt more than saw Derek’s nod, but Derek did begin to speak, his voice broken and rough.

“Don’t say anything.  Just let me finish.  Promise?”

“I promise.”

Derek took a deep breath, steeling himself before shocking the air right out of Stiles’ lungs with his first words:

“Stiles, I used to have a sister.  She died.”

He paused, as though struggling to find the right words.     

“When she was home, she would make me lunch.  Always with a little note.  _Have a great day, Derek!  Love, Laura_.”  
  
Stiles could feel the tears beginning to soak into the front of his shirt.

“And your lunch today – god, I miss her!  It was like she was here again.  It made me feel good.  To have somebody to take care of me.”

He wasn’t trying to hide the tears any longer, his shoulders beginning to shake.  His next words were difficult to understand, broken as they were by increasingly loud and increasingly frequent sobs.        

“You made me remember her.  And I started crying and I couldn’t stop because I just miss her so much.  I miss having somebody do nice things for me.  But you – you made me lunch for my birthday and brought it to my work with a note for me.  I just…I don’t know…Stiles, thank you so much.  You made it a good birthday.  I just miss Laura.”   

Shaken, Stiles could do nothing but whisper soothing nonsense. 

“Shh, shh, Derek, you’re okay.  I’ve got you.  You’re okay.  It’s going to be all right.”

It shocked him to his very core to see this handsome, debonair, educated man fall apart in front of him.  He knew with a degree of certainty that he had never before experienced that his job as Derek’s friend was to help put him back together. 

They never got around to studying French that night.  In fact, they never left the couch.  Sheriff Stilinski found them there long past midnight, his son wide awake and holding an obviously exhausted Derek Hale in his arms, running his fingers through the other man’s hair and whispering something too quiet for the sheriff to hear.

 

 

***

 

They never talked about it.  The only acknowledgement that anything had happened was the washed plate and Tupperware containers sitting on the porch one morning with a note that read _Thank you.  For everything_.  Stiles knew how difficult it was to be reminded of a loss and was just glad that he had been able to be there for Derek. 

Tutoring sessions continued on as they had been, Derek showing up a little before 6:00 every night for dinner.  Stiles took notes as Derek reminisced about his time in Paris, carefully filing away information on restaurants, banks, dry cleaners, and clubs.  They worked together on building a vocabulary that would allow Stiles to feel reasonably comfortable communicating in casual social settings.  Upon realizing that Stiles would never get the hang of French pronunciation without constant practice, Derek began recording himself speaking for a few minutes each day and forced Stiles to do the same.  Derek was happy because he had found a way to get Stiles to practice outside of their two hours together.  Stiles was happy because he had an MP3 player full of Derek’s voice to listen to as he fell asleep. 

And he stayed happy.  That desperate need to be with Derek had lessened a little as he focused on being a good student and a good friend.  He genuinely enjoyed their time together in the Stilinski kitchen, and he loved the ease with which they shared anecdotes from their days via text message.  Derek was a great guy, a guy Stiles was lucky to have met.

Things began to change on a Thursday night.  As they sat at the kitchen table, each devouring a huge pile of spaghetti and meatballs, Derek paused momentarily in shoveling food into his mouth to say, “Oh.  I forgot something.”  He looked at the tabletop, purposely avoiding meeting Stiles’ eyes. 

“Yeah?  What’s that?”

“Well, um…there’s this… _thing_ …that the tutors usually ask people who are going overseas for business.  Especially single people.”“All right, ask away.”

Derek took a deep breath and began to speak so quickly that Stiles almost had trouble following him.

“Do you want to know some phrases that will help you with women?  Like ‘You are so beautiful’ or ‘I’ve never met a woman like you before’ or ‘Do you want to come back to my place?’ or even something like ‘I have a condom’ or –”

“Derek!” Stiles interrupted, laughing.  “Dude, I don’t need to know any of that stuff.  One, I am not planning on sleeping with anybody who doesn’t speak at least a little English.  And two, I definitely don’t need vocabulary related to hitting on women.”

There it was.  Out there, unable to be taken back.  Stiles was gay.  He actually shrank back in his chair in anticipation of Derek’s reaction.  Was he going to freak out?

“Okay.” 

Derek’s attention shifted back to his food, their conversation seemingly forgotten as he stole the last meatball from Stiles’ plate. 

 

 

***

 

They were practicing telephone etiquette when it happened.  Derek had decided that, though there would be bilingual staff members at the office, Stiles couldn’t rely solely on them to communicate with other French-speakers. 

“All right.  Let’s imagine you have to call the cable company because your Internet access is down.”

“ _Allo?  France Telecom.”_

_“Uh, bonjour.  Je m’appelle Monsieur Stilinski et j’ai un problème avec l’Internet.”_

_“D’accord.  Pouvez-vous me donnez votre adresse, s’il vous plaît?”_

_“_ _Oui_ _.”_

Stiles thumbed through his wallet until he found his new French business card.

“ _15 rue Saint-Merri, appartement D, à Paris_.”

“ _Une minute, s’il vous plait.  Bon, le problème?”_

_“L’Internet…_ _uh_ _, l’Internet ne…”_

Shit. 

_“Parlez-vous anglais?”_

_“Non, Monsieur.”_

Shit shit shit.  He had absolutely no idea what to say. 

And if he couldn’t even express a simple concept like “it doesn’t work,” how the hell was he going to be able to function in a foreign country?  Almost instantly becoming so lightheaded that he feared he would pass out, he leaned forward and dropped his head toward the table to rest on his forearm. 

He suddenly felt something he hadn’t felt in almost two years: the thudding heartbeat, the struggle for a full breath of air, and the overwhelming sense of aloneness that signaled a panic attack.  It had been so long that he’d almost forgotten how _horrible_ it was, that out-of-control feeling that he was surely having a heart attack and his lungs were shutting down, the sense that it was only his fierce concentration that was keeping his heart pumping at all, the idea that if he stopped trying to take deep breaths, his body would give up on him. 

Fuck, he was going to die here in the kitchen. 

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. 

“Stiles?  What’s wrong?”

In what, if Stiles were a little more observant right this second, he would realize was an exact role reversal from the last time he and Derek touched, Derek’s other hand landed in the middle of Stiles’ back, moving in small, gentle circles.  And, oh, that touch helped ground him, gave him something to focus on besides the incessant pounding in his chest.

A whispered “Derek” slipped from his mouth, surprising him as much as his tutor.

“What do you need?  What can I do?”

When he spoke, he didn’t sound like himself, his words choked and broken as though he had to fight to get them out. 

“Panic attack.  I need…I don’t know…just please don’t go.  Don’t leave me alone.”

He still couldn’t get his breathing under control.  Every inhaled breath, no matter how deep, seemed to bring in less and less air.  His vision narrowed as dark spots spread in front of his eyes. 

When the world started making sense again, he was staring at his bedroom ceiling.  A man and a woman were talking softly and somebody was – somebody was rubbing his feet?

“Derek?”

 The hands around his foot tightened their grip, but it was his dad who spoke.

“Welcome back, kiddo.”

“Dad, what happened?”

“Well, it sounds like you had a pretty bad panic attack and passed out.  Derek called me, I called Melissa,” he gestured toward Mrs. McCall, “and we got here as fast as we could.  You were pretty anxious when you came to, so Melissa gave you a muscle relaxant and you’ve been sleeping for,” he checked his watch, “about two hours now.”

Mrs. McCall came over to sit on the bed next to him, for once not dressed in her ever-present hospital scrubs.  The thought of bothering her on her one day off made him feel sick. 

“I’m sorry –” 

“Stiles,” she interrupted, “shut up.  You don’t ever need to apologize to me.  I came over here because I care about you.  You’re like a son to me, and you know that.  So cut the crap and just relax.  Get some more sleep.  And make sure you come see me before you leave for France.”

“I will,” he whispered.  “Thank you.”

She kissed his forehead and stood to leave.  Sheriff Stilinski ran a hand across his son’s close-cropped hair and followed her out, pausing in the doorway to say, “Goodnight, guys.”

And then it was just Stiles and Derek.  Derek, whose hands had not moved from Stiles’ right foot for a few minutes.  Derek, who was not saying anything.

“Derek?”

A few more seconds of silence, then Stiles was _tackled_ as Derek launched his body at him and wrapped him up in a tight embrace.  Stiles once again felt all of the breath leave his body, but this time it wasn’t scary and uncontrollable – it was comforting, lying trapped under Derek’s body. 

When Derek spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper close to Stiles’ ear. 

“I was _so_ worried about you.  You passed out and I didn’t know what to do.  Since you knew it was a panic attack, I thought maybe you had them before, so I called your dad instead of 911.  I know if was just a couple of minutes, but it seemed like forever before you woke up.  I didn’t know if I did the right thing and I was so scared, Stiles.  So scared.”

Stiles managed to wriggle an arm out from under Derek’s weight, but could only bend it enough to lay his hand on Derek’s bicep.  He squeezed reassuringly (he hoped).

“It’s okay.  I’m okay.  Thank you for taking care of me.”

He had no idea how long they stayed like that, the full length of Derek’s body stretched out over his, and he could have stayed that way forever.  His circulatory system, however, had some problems with the idea. 

“Dude, I can’t feel my legs.  You’re cutting off my circulation.”

Derek didn’t respond but made a sound that could have been a snort before rolling off of his body to lie next to him, one arm across his chest.  His face was so close to Stiles that he could have counted each of his eyelashes.  When he finally spoke, his breath gusted warmly across Stiles’ cheek.

“Go to sleep.  Please."

 

 

***

 

Stiles woke slowly, lingering in that space between asleep and awake as his poor confused body tried to make sense of what it was experiencing. 

He reached instinctively for his blanket, wanting to tug it up over his face to block out the meager amount of sunlight filtering through the blinds, but couldn’t find it anywhere.  Deciding it didn’t really matter (he was deliciously warm without it, anyway), he stretched, luxuriating in the feeling of another body at his back like a solid wall of heat. 

“Good morning.”

“Nguh.” 

His dad always said that there was no use talking to him until he had been up for at least fifteen minutes.  So why was Dad bothering him now?

“Stiles.  Wake up.”

“Don’t wanna.” 

He tried to pull a pillow over his head, but was surprised to find the pillow jerked out of his hand at the last second.  Weird. 

“Stiles, I know you’re alive.  Wake up.”

“Fine, fine.”

He could take a hint.  Just as long as his dad stopped trying to –

Wait.  His dad was not in bed with him. 

_Derek_ was in bed with him.

He was instantly alert and intimately aware of every point of contact between their bodies.  One of Derek’s arms lie beneath Stiles’ head while the other wrapped tight around his chest.  One knee had insinuated itself between Stiles’ and every inch of Stiles’ back was pressed to Derek’s chest.  Their feet tangled together under the covers. 

“Uh, ‘morning.”

“He lives!  You are a hard man to wake up, you know.”

He chose not to say anything else.  Because at that moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to turn in the circle of Derek’s arms and bring their mouths together.  The kiss began as nothing more than a chaste brush of lips, but Stiles wanted more – so much more.  He bit gently at Derek’s lower lip, then dragged his tongue across that gorgeous bottom lip to soothe the hurt.  His mouth opened farther, attempting to draw Derek in, to join their tongues in a slick back-and forth glide.  

Finally getting what he wanted, getting his lips on Derek’s, seemed less like a prize he had won by virtue of wearing down the other man’s objections and more like an incredible gift he had been given.  Derek had spent the night with him, had held him tightly, was opening his mouth against the heat of Stiles’ lips, was –

Was gently pushing against Stiles’ shoulder, physically separating their mouths. 

“Stiles, no.  We can’t…I can’t…this just won’t work.”

The word “heartbroken” had always seemed a little melodramatic to him.  But in this instant, it was the only accurate way to describe how he was feeling.  It was as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to his chest, cracking his ribs in an attempt to get to the vulnerable muscle beneath.

His voice only shook a little as he turned away from Derek and quietly said, “Please get out of here."

 

 

***

 

_Mr. Stilinski,_  
 _We are sorry that you had to cut short your French tutoring but want to once again thank you for choosing our organization for your tutoring needs.  We hope that your experience was satisfactory and would greatly appreciate you taking a few minutes to fill out a survey about your time with us and your tutor, Mr. Derek Hale._  
 _Best of luck in the future,  
_ _Beacon Hills Learning Center_

He never clicked on the survey link.  Because he knew that if he did, he’d feel compelled to tell the truth.  And the truth, that his tutor was an exceptionally kind, talented, and handsome man whose absence in his life made him want to trade everything he owned for just once chance to see him again, terrified him.

It was easier to pretend he wanted nothing more to do with Derek Hale.  He made the choice to wall off that part of his heart and walk away purely out of self-preservation.  Because he knew, on some level, that if he allowed himself to think about the man, to wonder about what might have been, he would drive himself insane.  Crazy with want, crazy with love, crazy with the desperate desire to be near him again – he couldn’t do it to himself.  It would be too much to bear.  It was easier to pretend that Derek had never been a part of his life. 

 

**_Please answer your phone.  
_**

**_I guess you hate me._ ** **  
** **_I understand._ **

**_I won’t bother you again._ **

**_Bonne chance._ **


	2. Là

Paris in the spring was as beautiful as all the songs said.  In fact, Stiles fell deeper in love with the city each day.  He felt at home here, halfway around the world, in a way that he hadn’t in Beacon Hills for years.  He had been able to meet people, build relationships, and prove himself in a way that was never an option in a place where everyone had known everyone else since birth.  He was allowed to be his own person, not just “the Sheriff’s goofy kid.”

The transition had been shocking, of course.  Armed with just his French phrasebook, two suitcases, and the bruises on his back from his dad’s terrifyingly possessive hug at the airport, he had set off to conquer France.  Well, conquer his flight, at least.  Baby steps. 

But the terror he’d imagined at being forced to communicate in a language he had only been speaking for six weeks never materialized.  It seemed everyone, from the taxi driver to the hotel concierge to the barista at the coffee shop near his office, was willing to overlook his atrocious pronunciation and blatant disregard for verb conjugation if he at least made an attempt to speak French.  He realized quickly that a shy smile and a “ _Plus lentement, s’il vous plaît?_ ” were the keys to avoiding the stereotypical Parisian rudeness.    

The other two tenants in his small apartment building, both women in their mid-sixties, adopted him immediately.  Though neither of them spoke a word of English, they managed to eat dinner together two times a week despite Stiles’ broken French and his tenancy to fall back on Charades-like hand gestures. 

His colleagues were fantastic – everyone was so excited about what they were doing that the days just seemed to fly by.  Between the working lunches, the late-night champagne-fueled strategy sessions, and the weekend picnics at his boss’ house, it didn’t even feel like work. 

In fact, the days became weeks became months so quickly that before he knew it, he was three weeks away from returning home.     

He was happy. 

Well, not exactly. 

He was happy any time he had company.  At work, in Madame Louise’s dining room, or in a club with some of his co-workers, he didn’t have time to do anything but enjoy the moment.  Focusing on the language, lest he make some monumental error in comprehension, took up most of his brain power.  While navigating the metro and walking around his neighborhood, he listened to every bit of speech he could, inordinately pleased with himself when he could follow the thread of a conversation for more than a few seconds. 

When surrounded by people, it was easy to forget that he had ever lived anywhere else.  His new friends monopolized his time to the point that his dad was the only person he missed. 

But at night, alone in his apartment, it was a matter of seconds before happy daytime Stiles morphed into broody nighttime Stiles. 

He was not happy.

It had taken every ounce of his willpower to not contact Derek before he left for Paris.  Every day, something had happened that made him want to pick up his phone and text his friend, but before he could start to type, he remembered just why he wasn’t speaking to him. 

Had he misread Derek’s intent?  Looking back over their fast friendship, had Stiles been deluding himself by thinking that Derek was interested in becoming more than just friends?  He didn’t think so.  Sure, memories of Derek’s hand on his shoulders, on his thigh, and at the small of his back were fuel for his jerk-off fantasies.  But that night that he had spent hours doing nothing more than holding Derek, stroking his hair and whispering “ _Shh…it’s okay, don’t worry,  I’m here, I’ll take care of you_ ” over and over – wasn’t that Derek trusting him, opening up to him, allowing Stiles to care for him?  Wasn’t that something like love?

God, even the word hurt.  _Love_. 

He had _thought_ that love was Derek squeezing his foot, so worried about his health that he barely waited until Dad and Melissa had left the room to crush their bodies together in a hug that took his breath away.  He had imagined that waking up safe in Derek’s embrace, their bodies connected from head to foot, was love.  For fuck’s sake, Derek had watched over him as he slept, and then held him close all through the night!  How could it not be love? 

Because it was love on Stiles’ part.  That’s what made everything hurt so much – the fact that he had fallen completely and totally in love with Derek.  It wasn’t just a crush and it was so much more than infatuation.  It was “I want to spend every second of the rest of my life with you” _love_. 

He thought Derek might have felt the same.  He was obviously wrong. 

Every night, as he tossed and turned while trying to sleep, he wished desperately for another body to share his bed, strong arms wrapping around him at night and hands holding his during the day, sharing every moment of this experience with him.  And every morning, he woke with the clear certainty that it was never going to happen, so it was time to get up, get ready, go to work, and start living his own life. 

 

***

 

“Stiles?”

He loved the way the French staff said his name.  It either sounded like “Stalls” or “Steels,” the French language not really possessing the sounds needed to make it sound like it did at home.  But that was okay with him.  Here in Paris, he’d become a different person.  A different name was to be expected.

“ _Oui, Nicole_ _?_ ”

Stiles and his boss’ secretary had quickly become friends.  She had been the first person in the office to invite him to dinner and had explored the city with him on day-long sight-seeing trips.  She was also incredibly helpful at work, since she knew everything about everything.  And everybody. 

“Monsieur Zidane would like to see you.”

Since he was in charge of both layout and copy-writing for the magazine’s first issue, Stiles had spent quite a bit of time with his boss, but he’d never before been summoned to his office.  And he knew it was ridiculous – he was twenty-five years old! – but he felt a little like he had whenever he’d heard “Stiles Stilinski to the main office” on the intercom at Beacon Hills High School.

No visit to principal Argent’s office had ever gone this well, though.  Or been this surprising.  In fact, he spent the majority of his five minutes in the office wide-eyed and open-mouthed, nodding when it was required of him.   

He’d just been offered a huge salary increase.  And a permanent position in the Paris office. 

 

***

 

 After three days, he still had no idea what to do.  He’d come to Paris fully prepared to return home after a few months.  Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined how much he would come to love the city and the people in it. 

But his dad was at home.  And it hurt to even think it, but so was Derek. 

Could he truly be happy here?  Start a new life thousands of miles away from home?  Would seeing Dad just a few times a year be enough for him?

If he took this job, he would never see Derek again.  And he wasn’t sure if the ache in his chest at the thought was grief or relief. 

He called his dad, close to tears.  (And damn, he felt as though he’d cried more this last year than he had in his first twenty-four years on the planet put together.)  

Sheriff Stilinski hadn’t been able to give any advice beyond, “You have to do what feels right _for you_.  I can’t help you decide.  But I’m proud of you no matter what you choose.”

Two days later, he was back in Monsieur Zidane’s office, preparing to make what he considered to be the first adult decision of his life.  He’d done nothing but think about the offer since it had been made, one day completely ready to start a new life in France, the next terrified to be so far away from his family and his home.  He knew that he would be more satisfied working in France than he ever would be at home, but he wasn’t sure if he could give up that safety net of knowing and being known by everyone in the community. 

And there was Derek.  If he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t make the decision because of him.  If he returned home, chances were good he’d run into him at some point.  And he didn’t think he could handle the pain of being around Derek but knowing that Derek didn’t want him. 

But if he took this job, he would never see Derek again.  Would that be any better?  Could he willingly cut Derek out of his life – forever? 

His brain told him that Derek was the cause of all of his pain and he would do well to be rid of him.  His heart wanted him back on the next plane to the United States. 

Stiles picked up the pen and signed on the dotted line.  If he couldn’t be happy personally, at least he could be happy professionally.  And maybe, over time, the Derek Hale-shaped hole in his heart could be filled in enough that he would be able to function without constantly worrying at it.   

 

***

 

Life settled into a comfortable routine.  Stiles extended the rental agreement on his apartment.  He could have moved somewhere closer to the office but he didn’t want to leave his two adopted grandmothers.  They continued to eat dinner together at least twice a week and often sent him to work with a bag full of leftovers for lunch. 

He still went out with his colleagues and even made some new friends at an English used-book store.  He was never idle, intent on discovering everything that the city had to offer.  His free time was spent in museums, at free outdoor concerts, and climbing to the top of every tall monument in the city. 

His language skills improved dramatically when he began taking a twice-weekly French course.  The other students in his class were mostly in the same situation as he was: businessmen who had been transferred to France.  He began to feel more confident in his speech and was even complimented on his noticeable improvement by the woman running the cash register at his neighborhood bakery.

But the greatest moment of all came when one day, riding the bus, everything suddenly became clear.  It was as though something _clicked_ in his head and all the complicated parts of the French language fell into place.  He could understand everything going on around him.  He knew it would take a lot of work until he could express himself the way he wanted to, but he could understand!  He had never expected to get this far and couldn’t help but tell everyone about it. 

As he told his fellow students, “It’s like, bang!  All of a sudden I can understand everything that people around me are saying!  And I feel like some kind of creepy stalker, but I just want to follow people around and listen to them talk all day.”

Some of his classmates, envious of his progress and impatient to get there themselves, told him how lucky he was while the students who were already there just nodded knowingly.  After class, one of the newer students stopped him.

“Stiles, right?”  
  
“Yup, that’s me.”

“I’m Jason.  Hey, congratulations on finally understanding everybody.  I wish I could do that.”

“Well, I have been here for a couple of months now.”

“Really?  Where are you from?”  
  
Jason’s question started a discussion on the weather in California, the upcoming presidential election, and the upsetting realization that French Hot Pockets definitely do not taste like the American version.  Before long, he and Stiles were the only people left in the room.

“Want to get a coffee or something?”

Stiles agreed – it wasn’t a dinner night with his two favorite ladies, so he was in no hurry.  And Jason seemed like a nice enough guy.  Over lattes, they discovered they had quite a few common interests and spent nearly two hours skipping comfortably from one topic to another. 

When Jason went back to the counter for a refill, Stiles had the opportunity to really look at him.  Tall and lanky with dark hair and bright blue eyes, Jason was definitely attractive.  In fact, he was exactly the type of guy Stiles had fallen for before…well, let’s not think about that. 

Jason turned back to the table and caught Stiles staring.  He winked cheesily, sending Stiles into a very immature fit of giggles. 

As he slid back onto his chair, Jason said, “Hey, I forgot to ask you something.  You’ve only been here for a few months and you never took a class until now, right?  So how did you survive when you first got here?”

Shit.

“Oh, I, uh…I had a tutor.  For a couple of weeks.  Before I came over here.”

Sensing that Stiles didn’t want to continue with that line of conversation, Jason quickly changed the topic and asked for his opinion on the best area in which to rent an apartment.  They spoke for a few more minutes, but it was clear to both of them that Stiles’ heart just wasn’t in it any longer.

And it didn’t really surprise either of them when, as they were leaving, Jason asked if Stiles would like to go out on a date sometime and Stiles said no.

 

***

 

Derek was everywhere.  Stiles couldn’t even have a conversation with a stranger without thinking about the man he had loved – dammit, _still_ loved. 

Stiles practically demanded that his colleague Jean-Christophe take him to a gay bar the next night.  He couldn’t stand to spend even one more night alone.  Some mindless sex with some random hot guy could cure his hunger for contact – he was sure of it. 

Sure of it right up to the point when the guy he was making out with ripped his hand back out of Stiles’ pants and hissed, “ _Qui est Derek?_ ”

He was so fucked.  He was never going to be happy again.  He was going to spend the rest of his life alone, pining away for somebody who didn’t want him.  What a sad, pathetic life it was going to be.

 

***

  

One new voicemail from Nicole:

“Stiles, I know that tomorrow is your day off, but I really need you to meet one of our employees from the Marseilles office.  He is only in Paris for one day, or else I would not ask you.  You must meet him at the carousel outside Abbesses métro station tomorrow at 3:00 in the afternoon.  Please send me a text message so that I know you have received this message.”

Damn.  He had planned to be dead-to-the-world drunk by 3:00 tomorrow. 

**No problem.  I’ll be there at 3:00.**

***

 

 He arrived at the station a few minutes early and chose to wander around a little bit.  Other than his trip to the top of Sacré Cœur, he hadn’t really explored Montmartre yet.  It seemed exciting:  the music from the small carousel competed with the sound of a guitar and drum band on one side street and an accordion player on another.

As he watched tired parents plop their children onto the carousel, his phone buzzed in his hip pocket.  The name on the display surprised him – _Dad_. 

“Dad?  What’s wrong?”

“Hello to you, too, son.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  I just need a favor.  Will you do something for me?”

What?  Was he hearing correctly?

“Dad, hang on.  I need to get somewhere a little quieter.” 

“Sure, sure.  Take your time.  It’s not like this is an international call or anything.”

“Ha ha.  Okay, what do you need?”

When he spoke, his dad’s voice was somehow softer and more gentle than normal. 

“Stiles, do you trust me?”

“Dad, _what the hell is going on_?

“Just answer me, please.  Kiddo, do you believe that I only want what is best for you?”

“Of course I do.  Dad, are you okay?  Are you sick or something?  Oh my god, are you dying?”

“Stop.  Just listen to me.  Are you at the carousel?”

“Um, yes.  How did you know that?”

“Turn so that you’re facing away from the church.”

Deciding that he was either having an incredibly weird, incredibly vivid dream or had actually gone crazy, he figured he had nothing to lose by playing along.

“Okay.  Done.”

“Do you see the little park in front of you?  There’s a bright blue mural on one of the walls.”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Good.  There’s a note for you taped on the bottom left corner of the mural.”

“Dad, am I about to do something illegal?”

“Stiles, just shut up.  Go get your note.  And please call me tomorrow.”

“I…okay?”

But his dad was already gone. 

This was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in ages.  He hurried across the square to the blue wall, searching for his note.  The wall’s mural seemed to be made up of blue tiles covered in white writing, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. 

Right where his dad said he would find it, there was a white envelope with his name on it. 

Too anxious to wait, he ripped open the envelope right there, in front of the wall.  Inside was a single sheet of office paper with a typed message. 

_This wall is called le Mur des je t’aime.  It means the Wall of “I Love You”.  It says “I love you” in more than 300 languages._  
 _I couldn’t think of a better place to tell you this._  
 _Stiles, I love you._  
 _I love you and I’m sorry.  
_ _Please turn around._

 

What the hell?  Was this some kind of weird joke?  How was his dad involved?  Why had his boss sent him here? 

Sure that there was some kind of hidden camera crew following him, he turned around slowly. 

Derek. 

Derek fucking Hale. 

Here.  In Paris. 

Stiles’ brain was short-circuiting.  Could not process what was going on.  Derek.  Here.  Derek. 

 _Oh, Derek_. 

Before he even realized he was going to move, he had crossed the tiny park and was throwing himself at Derek, arms flying up to twine around his neck as he pressed his face to Derek’s chest, taking in huge breaths of that familiar scent like he could never get enough.  It was cologne and laundry detergent and sun-warmed wool, but beneath all of that was this thing he couldn’t name, something that smelled of warmth and comfort and – _oh_ , it smelled like home. 

Derek wrapped one arm around his waist and brought the other up to the back of his neck, tucking Stiles’ head under his chin. 

“Stiles, Stiles, I’m here, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Stiles didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, just clung to Derek like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the Earth.  He had no idea long they stood there, silently holding each other.  The sounds of the world around them faded away until it was as though they stood in their own bubble. 

It wasn’t until a little boy, chasing another boy through the park, crashed into their legs that they separated.  Well, Derek tried to.  Stiles refused to let him go for even a second, forcing Derek to walk awkwardly backwards as he tried to guide them to a bench.

“You have to let go for just a second.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Listen, I’m not going anywhere.  Let’s just sit down.”

“No. Don’t wanna lose you again.”

Derek backed up until the back of his knees hit the bench, then pulled Stiles down in an ungainly sprawl of limbs.  Finally forced to break the contact between their bodies, Stiles stared up at Derek, eyes full of hope, and breathed, “What’s happening here?”

“It’s a long story.  And I have a lot of confessions to make.  Will you listen to me?”

Scared of what he might hear, Stiles dropped his head to press an ear to Derek’s chest.  As Derek’s hand came up to trace his fingers along Stiles’ jawline, he started to speak. 

“There actually is no employee from Marseille to meet.  I asked your boss’ secretary and your dad to help get you here.  Please don’t be angry with them,” he said with some urgency, making it clear that he wanted those first words to sink in.      

Stiles didn’t respond, just rubbed his cheek against Derek’s chest.

“I’ve thought about this for so long, but I’m still not sure where to start.  I guess…I guess I’ll start by saying that…well, that morning in your bed, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to.  I wanted to from the very beginning. 

Don’t be angry with me, but right after you found out that you were leaving for France a couple of months earlier than you had planned, I ran into your boss at the grocery store.  He wanted to know how you were doing because he knew that if you did a good job, they’d be offering you a full-time position at the Paris office.

I didn’t tell you about it because he didn’t want me to.  He thought that if you knew it was a trial period, you might be too nervous to do your best work.  And I was okay with not telling you because I thought he was right.  You seemed like such a nice guy – I thought that you deserved an opportunity to be happy.”

Derek paused and moved his hand from Stiles’ cheek to rest gentle and warm on his neck. 

“But you…I don’t know.  I just started to fall for you.  When I took you out to dinner, I wished so much that it could be a date and not a tutoring session.  I wanted to spend all of my time with you.  The problem was I couldn’t tell how you felt about me.  You were always so focused during our tutoring sessions – after that first time, you never talked about anything personal.  I didn’t think you were interested.    

Then, on my birthday, I finally realized how much you cared about me.  At first, I was thrilled.  But then I realized that you were going to be leaving me in just a few weeks and you’d probably never come back.  And this is going to sound so selfish, but I just couldn’t do it to myself.  I couldn’t have you and then lose you. 

The night you had your panic attack – I was so scared.  I couldn’t help it; when you finally woke up, I was so happy to see you that I gave in and did what I wanted to do for so long.  I held you all night because I wasn’t strong enough not to. 

Then you kissed me.  And I’m sorry about the way I reacted.  I just had to stop it.  I knew I was going to lose you in a few weeks, so I pushed you away.”

All the contentment Stiles had been feeling at being wrapped up in Derek’s arms began to dissipate, quickly replaced by a growing sense of resentment.  He pushed back against Derek’s chest, sitting up and finally separating them.      

“Yeah, I remember.  Thanks for that, by the way.  It felt really great.  Not at all like I was the world’s least desirable human being, you asshole.”

Derek seized his hand, squeezing it between both of his. 

“Stiles, please just let me finish.  I know I have a lot to be sorry for.  I’m not proud of my behavior.  But you stopped tutoring and wouldn’t respond to any of my messages, so I thought that leaving you alone was what you wanted.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  For both of us.” 

“Yeah, but how –”     

“Please.  Just give me a few minutes more.”

The hands around his tightened. 

“I missed you so much that I didn’t know what to do.  I couldn’t stop thinking about you.  I couldn’t go in my office without remembering the lunch that you made for me.  So I called your dad and pretended I just wanted to hear about how you were adjusting to life in France.  He told me you were doing really well, but that you seemed lonely.      

And then – please don’t be angry at me for this – I called your boss.  Told him I was calling from the Learning Center and wanted to know if he thought you’d been well-prepared.  He didn’t have time to talk, but he gave me his secretary’s number.  She told me how well you were doing and how much you liked living in Paris.” 

Derek sighed.

“She’s smart, Stiles.  She knew right away that I wasn’t just somebody from the tutoring center.  She kept firing question after question at me, like where I was from, how long I had known you, why I cared so much about how you were doing.  Then she pretty much demanded to know my cell phone number.  I was so shocked that I just gave it to her.  She said she’d be in contact very soon.”     

Stiles was already plotting Nicole’s disappearance into the Seine.  How dare she? 

“The next day, she sent me two videos.  The first was of you at some club, smiling and dancing like a maniac.  The second one –”  

Derek’s voice broke.

“The second one broke my heart.  At first there was no picture, just a blank screen.  A girl’s voice said, ‘He fell asleep in my apartment after we had a little too much to drink at dinner.’  Then it showed you, sleeping on a couch.  You were hugging this pillow and snoring a little.  I watched you for a few seconds, you looked so peaceful, but then you said it.  It was quiet, but I heard it.  ‘Derek.’

Stiles, you said my name in your sleep.  You said it three more times before the video ended.”

Derek released his hand to place a finger under his chin and tilt it up until their eyes met. 

“I flew here the next morning.  Stiles, I love you, and I think you love me.  Please say you do.”

For the first time in his life, Stiles Stilinski had no words.  Instead, he did what he had been dreaming of for months and, not caring that he was in a public place, straddled Derek’s lap and pressed their lips together. 

  

***

 

Stiles had no idea how they’d made it back to his apartment, but soon enough they were tumbling through his door, barely managing to shut it behind them in their desperate rush to touch each other. 

Derek’s kisses were just as confusing as their relationship had so far been, changing from sweet and near-chaste to filthy and sloppy to biting and possessive within seconds.  Stiles just opened his mouth and let Derek take what he wanted, too overwhelmed by the _I can’t believe he’s here_ running on a loop through his brain. 

Everything passed in a haze of lust as Stiles did nothing more than revel in the sensation of skin on skin, moving instinctually against Derek’s warm body.  Clothing disappeared and they fell naked into bed, moving in unison as their bodies slid against each other faster and faster, chasing the pleasure that they had wanted from each other for months. 

 

***

 

 He woke some time later, sticky and hanging halfway off the bed. 

And pissed.

He turned to see Derek watching him, a fond smile on his face.  Stiles smiled back, then punched him in the arm as hard as he could.

“What the hell, you jerk?  The first time I get to touch you and it was over so fast that I don’t even remember it?”

Derek’s grin was positively predatory.    

“Oh, don’t worry.  You’ll remember this.”

He was on top of Stiles in a flash, legs straddling his hips and arms bracketing his head.  This time, Derek kissed him like he could never get enough of him, like his lips were more important than food or water or air.  In fact, separating seemed to physically pain him, judging by the groan he produced when Stiles finally had to push him away, head spinning with dizziness at the prolonged lack of air. 

More than anything, Stiles was amazed at how _easy_ it was to kiss Derek.  Other kisses, before Derek, had been awkward, messy, and unfulfilling.  He was always thinking: where to put his lips, when to use his tongue, how to avoid bumping noses.  With Derek, he could just _kiss_.

As Stiles panted, Derek growled his displeasure at being forced to separate.  Instead of returning to his mouth, Derek began to trace his lips back and forth over the skin of his throat and shoulders, stopping occasionally to lick into the hollow between his collarbones.    

He moved to slide his hands roughly across Stiles’ chest, thumbing at each nipple before pausing to nip gently at them, but the attention he paid was perfunctory as the real target of his interest lie farther down Stiles’ body. 

Stiles discovered that feather-light touches to his abs were enough to make him giggle, but those same caresses on the thin skin of his hips had him moaning and arching up off the bed against Derek’s hands.  He was caught somewhere between _too much_ and _not nearly enough_ as Derek slid gentle fingers along his inner thighs and his stomach, carefully avoiding any contact with his dick.

“Fuck, Derek!  Please!”

Completely ignoring his plea, Derek shifted his attention back to Stiles’ face and neck, first kissing him with, if it were even physically possible, more enthusiasm than he had earlier, and then scraping his teeth up the column of his throat before closing them gently around his Adam’s apple.  It set every one of his nerves on fire, his back bowing with the spine-tingling pleasure of it all.  He groaned out Derek’s name.   

“God, you’re so responsive.” 

Derek’s voice was wrecked, coming out at half the volume and about an octave lower than usual.   

“I want to hear all of the different sounds you make.  I want to play with you for hours, just to hear which ones I like the best.”

“I’m yours.  _Please_ play with me,” was the only coherent response he could make. 

Derek’s whole body shuddered as he squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “Oh, fuck!  I’m going to.  I want you so much.”

Suddenly, Derek’s eyes met his, and Stiles felt like all his Christmases had come at once as he was treated to the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life:  Derek Hale licking his lips before sliding down his body and bending to press a closed-mouth kiss to the very tip of Stiles’ cock.  

He had one second of coherency during which he realized that he would never again be able to watch porn again, as nothing could ever compare to this moment.  But then Derek opened his mouth and began to lick, hot and damp, up and down his shaft, and he lost the ability to even form a complete sentence. 

But it turned out that was nothing compared to the unbelievably perfect heat and suction of Derek’s mouth.  Words poured unbidden from him: “Oh Derek please oh god oh Derek amazing so good Derek oh Derek!”  Each bob of Derek’s head and swipe of his tongue sent Stiles oh so much closer to slipping over that edge until he was almost, almost –

Though he would deny it until his dying day, Stiles sobbed when Derek stopped.  Derek just stroked his stomach, trying to calm him like he was some kind of pet, and laughed gently.   
  
“Not so fast.  I want to come with you.”

This time the noise was more like a whimper, and yes, Stiles would own up to it.  Because, c’mon – Derek Hale wanted to come with him.  Anybody would whimper.

Derek gripped Stiles’ hips and helped him to turn over onto his stomach.  The second he’d settled in his new position, Derek was kneeling behind him, hands on his ass, kneading the muscles with such strength that Stiles was picturing a polka-dotted pattern of bruises on both cheeks.  He snorted out a tiny laugh at the image.

“Laughing, huh?  That’s not really one of the noises I was going for.”

That said, Derek moved so quickly that Stiles could swear he should have been able to hear the sonic boom.  One moment he was kneeling over Stiles’ thighs.  The next, he was lying flat on the bed, his hands spreading Stiles’ cheeks as he breathed out a gust of warm air across the very center of him. 

Derek’s tongue, which had felt so soft in his mouth, was much rougher against the delicate skin here.  Each broad lick sent a delicious thrill coursing through his body, and he was thrusting gently against the bed in a desperate search for the friction that he needed.  But as Derek’s long strokes turned into shorter licks and then little fluttering passes directly over his hole, he began to hump against the bed in earnest, needing to come and needing to come _now_.

Derek, the bastard, laughed.  _Laughed!_ He propped his chin on one of Stiles’ asscheeks and laughed. 

“Stiles, I thought we were going to come together.”

“Jesus, Derek, you’re killing me!  Please, just do it!”

“Do what?  I need to hear you say it.”

As he spoke, Stiles heard the _snick_ of the top of a bottle of lube, but he was unprepared for Derek’s slicked-up thumb to press inside him. 

The gasp that tore through his chest almost hurt, like all the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“Ah, Derek – Derek, I need you to fuck me.”

“Believe me, I will.  When I’m ready.”

Had he not already been reduced to little more than a pile of wobbly human goo, that would have been the moment he would have walked out.  Left Derek with that stupid grin on his face and just walked out.  Who did he think he was, being all bossy and pushy and sexy?  It would serve him right if Stiles just up and left.    

Oh, who was he kidding?  He would have stayed no matter what.  Though he never would have admitted that being bossed around was actually a little hot. 

Derek returned his tongue to its previous task, fluttering around the rim of his hole as more fingers were added, pushing in and stretching inside him until he was squirming for more.  The promise of Derek’s cock, warm flesh when he had only ever felt cool silicone, had him lifting himself up, pressing back against Derek’s mouth and fingers until he was on his hands and knees. 

The fingers were suddenly gone, and Stiles turned, ready to bitch at their owner.  But the sight of Derek deftly sliding a condom over his considerable length stopped the words in his throat. 

He knelt behind Stiles and for a few seconds did nothing more than rub the head of his cock against Stiles’ ass.  But Stiles’ whine seemed to spur him on, because the next thing he knew, Derek was sliding inside him, inch by inch in a slow, relentless glide. 

Oh, he wasn’t prepared for this.  Not the penetration – that was the easy part – but the intimacy.  It was one thing to play around with a dildo and imagine it belonged to somebody, but this joining of flesh was so mind-numbingly good that he understood why his dad and all of his middle school health teachers had tried to instill in him the idea that sex was special and was not to be treated lightly. 

Derek pulled out slowly, only to slide back in, establishing a gentle rhythm for the time being.  He draped himself over Stiles, the skin of his chest so hot against Stiles’ back that he wondered if he’d come out of this with second-degree burns. 

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours – Stiles had no idea.  All he knew was the gentle roll of Derek’s hips against the curve of his ass and the slick in-and-out that he never wanted to end.  

Of course, it did end.  Derek pulled out (leaving Stiles feeling horribly empty) and lay down next to him, pulling him down for more intense kisses, each swipe of Derek’s tongue against Stiles’ sparking in them the desire for more – more touch, more contact, _more, more, more_. 

Stiles broke away, gasping, to straddle Derek’s hips and take him in once again, the change in position lighting fires within him each time as rose and fell over Derek’s gorgeous body.  Derek seemed content to let him take charge, so Stiles began to increase both the speed and strength of his movements, reaching down to take Derek’s hands and slot their fingers together, both of them squeezing as Stiles pushed them both on toward the inevitable conclusion. 

Suddenly, Derek’s hands were gone and he was carefully sitting up, forcing Stiles to extend his legs until he was seated completely in Derek’s lap, legs wrapped around his back. The difference in their heights, so pronounced when standing, was negated in this position as their bodies lined up to bring their mouths to the same level.  There was no straining, there was no awkward contorting; like this – wrapped up in each other’s arms, not a single inch of skin untouched – they fit together perfectly.    

And, _oh_ , he had never been this close to another person before.  It wasn’t just physical; it was this unbelievable sense of rightness.  The feeling that everything that he had ever done in his life had been leading him to this moment, to this one point of connection between the two of them. 

He realized that he was babbling – “Derek!” and “Oh!” popping out of his mouth with each thrust as though the words were being punched out of him. 

Derek was talking, as well.  He dropped his head to Stiles’ shoulder as the pleasure coursing through them rose higher and higher, each of their bodies desperately straining toward that one movement, that one touch that would bring about their long-waited release. 

“Oh, Stiles, sweetheart, love you so much.  Wanted this for so long.  Stiles, Stiles, I love you, I love you, _je t’aime_!”

Derek came, thrusting through his orgasm with as much force as he could, leaning in to open his mouth and bite down hard at the join of Stiles’ neck and shoulder.  The pleasure/pain mix sent Stiles over the edge with him, his cock spurting untouched between their bodies, wave after wave of electric pleasure coursing through him as his back bowed and his mouth opened in a (mostly) silent scream of ecstasy.

Neither of them moved for some time, and when they finally did, it was to press their mouths together in what was less of a kiss than a just a slide of lips against each other. 

Stiles (of course) was the first to speak. 

“I don’t think I can move.  I think you broke me.  Can a person actually get sexed to death?  I think I just did.  I’m dying.  From the sex.  Holy shit, Derek, you’re like some kind of sex wizard who –”

“Stiles!”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, will do.  Just, Derek,” he paused, suddenly shy, “you know I love you too, right?”

Though he couldn’t see the smile, Stiles could feel it against the side of his neck. 

They stayed there, stuck together, for a few minutes before separating to get cleaned up.  And as individual showers turned into a group shower (“Derek, I work for an environmental magazine.  I am passionate about conservation of water.”) and Stiles was granted the privilege of soaping up a naked, wet Derek Hale, he realized that, for the first time in a long time, he was happy.

 

***

 

“Yes, Dad, everything is great.  How long is he staying?  Um, we didn’t really talk about it.  I’ll call you when everything is sorted out.  Okay, love you, too.  And Dad, thank you so much.”

Seated at the kitchen table, he watched as Derek strode into the kitchen, clad only in delightfully tight boxer-briefs.  Stiles allowed himself a few seconds of open-mouthed appreciation before he forced himself to begin asking the questions that needed to be asked.

“I guess you heard me talking to my dad.  So, how long are you staying?  How is this going to work out?”

Derek moved to kneel in front of him. 

“I’m sorry – I’m so bad at this.  There’s something else I forgot to tell you.”

His heart sank.  Oh, well.  It had been good while it lasted.  He _knew_ from the beginning that there was no way that he and Derek were ever going to be together. 

“I, uh, I’ve been thinking a lot about my future.  And I didn’t want to stay in Beacon Hills if you weren’t there with me.  So I sort of started a job search and – well, I found a job here.  In Paris.  I’m moving here.  To be with you.  That is, if you’ll have me.”

For the second time in as many days, Stiles Stilinski had no words.  He could do nothing but sink to the floor and press his lips to Derek’s, pledging himself to this man that he loved so very much without needing to say a single word.  

 

***

 

The night before the wedding, there was a single sheet of paper resting on Derek’s pillow. 

Scrawled in Stiles’ messy handwriting at the top was:

_Derek –_

_I never actually filled this out when I was supposed to.  But this is what it would say._

  
On a scale of 1-5 with 1 being the being the best and 5 being the worst, how do you rate your experience with the Beacon Hills Learning Center? _1_

On a scale of 1-5 with 1 being the being the best and 5 being the worst, how do you rate your experience with your tutor? _1_

Would you recommend the Beacon Hills Learning Center to others? _Yes_

Do you have any additional comments?  
 _There is not enough space on this form to express how very satisfied I am with my French tutor, Derek Hale.  He is patient with me, willing to work around my scheduling constraints, and is so very sexy.  He is smart, kind, generous (especially in bed), and has made me happier than I ever dreamed I could be.  I don’t know how your company did it, but you provided me with the ideal man.  He can calm me down when I get too excited, stop me from talking too much and embarrassing myself in front of strangers, and prevent me from falling down the stairs (too often, anyway).  
_ _  
_ _In the words of Marie Antoinette (see, I’ve learned so much about French!), “I shall never forget that you are responsible for my happiness.”  Thank you for sending Derek to me.  I didn’t know that there was a hole in my life until he came and filled it perfectly._  
    
 _Derek Hale is the most important person in the world to me.  And even though he still can’t cook, I’ve decided to be with him forever.  Tomorrow, on the fifth anniversary of the day that we met, we’re going to become Monsieur et Monsieur Hale and live happily ever after._

_I love you, Derek._

 

 


End file.
